


Once More Unto the Breach

by Fangirlinit



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirlinit/pseuds/Fangirlinit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But then here you are just dropping in unannounced and blissfully unaware of what you’ve just done, like you’re some replacement…” Her whisper dragged off. The hand returned to her trembling lips. “I am not as blissfully unaware as you might think,” H.G. sat up straighter and finished softly, “Myka.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place just after 4x01 A New Hope.

The woman strained to reach over her head. She planted a foot on the bottom shelf to give herself a small boost.

_Just one more inch._

Fingers brushed against a rough surface.

_No, not that._

She twisted her wrist to feel to the left and her palm was met by smooth porcelain. Her fingers danced across the etchings on the neck of the vase, interpreting the language in her mind.

"Aces!"

She got a firm hold on the artifact and slid it towards the edge of the shelf. The artifact bumped up against something solid and the sound of rolling reached her ears. Out of the corner of her eye came a black blur which she followed to the floor.

"Oh, bullo –"

Before she could finish the boot clad toe supporting her weight shifted. Already strained fingers slipped from their hold. The next course of events flashed before her eyes within seconds of them occurring. Her breath caught in her lungs at what was to come.

With arms stretched in front of her she saw the shelf moving away from her. Wisps of raven back hair flowed past her face, reaching for the ceiling as she plummeted down, down, down.

She was swallowed into the void.

***

Her fall was halted with a dull thump. She groaned from the blaze of pain coming from the back of her head. While gasping for air her eyes opened to reveal spinning lights. It was like she had dropped onto the floor of a carousel going round and round. However, this place (wherever she had arrived) was not a carnival for there was no laughter of children or music of a circus waltz. In fact, all the inventor heard was silence. A wave of nausea hit her suddenly. Rolling onto her side she curled into fetal position and clutched her stomach.

After inhaling and exhaling a few calming breaths she stole a second look at her location. A chest of card catalog drawers ran against one wall along with a table littered with books and papers. To her left was a spiral staircase and on her right were a swivel chair, a desk, and some interesting contraptions atop it. Her surroundings reminded her of the Warehouse, in yet…

"Hey, are you guys back already?" The question echoed from an open door across the room. "I thought all flights were delayed."

The source of the female voice revealed itself in the presence of a tall, 30-something woman clad in black skin-tight pants and loose button down. Half buckled boots scrapped lazily across the office floor and stopped abruptly when green eyes lifted from reading a file to meet the fallen, dazed inventor.

"H.G." the brunette gasped. The file dropped forgotten on the floor and in seconds she was beside the other woman. "Are you alright? What happened?"

The woman named H.G. stared at the hand on her shoulder and felt the gentle pressure of a palm cradling her cheek.

"Helena?" The name was spoken with concern and a hint of affection.

The vertigo disappeared to reveal a truer sight of the woman bent over her. An odd, yet familiar feeling of fear and adventure coursed through her blood. It heightened her senses to 'agent level' as she gazed at the mystery surrounding her. There was also a peculiar sense of recognition. "Do I know you?"

The odd feeling that asserted itself within H.G. was something akin to déjà vu.

_Have I met this woman before?_

The curly haired brunette still had her hands on H.G. who still had not pulled away from such unfamiliar contact. The inventor had been held by many lovers in her time (as many women as men), but never had she felt the soothing comfort that the mystery woman was giving her. She had a strong desire to solve this puzzle.

"Have we met before?" H.G. asked with more wonder than confusion.

"Very funny. Did Pete put you up to this?" The woman slapped her own thigh and shook her head violently. "I knew it! He's getting back at me for finishing the rest of the Chunky Monkey!" The tall woman was met with a furrowed brow at the name 'Pete' and an equally perplexed expression at 'Chunky Monkey.' She cocked her head. "Exactly how hard did you bump your head?"

Her agent training told her not to trust the woman. It was entirely possible that she was an American spy who had broken through Warehouse security and captured Wolcott and Chaturanga. Yet the feeling of déjà vu and the way the woman was looking at her compelled her to speak truthfully, for the time being. _I can incapacitate her later if it comes to that._

H.G. propped herself on her elbows to scrutinize her surroundings. "This is not Chaturanga's office, but there is something about this place that is distinctly Warehouse related." Her gaze returned to the stranger who looked like she was experiencing an epiphany.

"Oh no," the woman said in a low voice. "H.G. … what time period do you think you're in?"

"Well, I would say the turn of the 19th century, however," she looked around the room again, "from my surroundings and my keen interest in time travel I would conclude that I have seriously mistaken the date."

"What is the last thing you remember before waking up on the floor?"

H.G.'s eyes moved up and to the left, trying to retrieve the memory. Things were still a bit hazy from whatever trip she had taken. "There was an artifact… yes, I was reaching for a particular artifact relating to a case and then something fell from the shelf. The impact blew a hole in the floor and I fell in. There were a few minutes of blackness, like I had been knocked out, and I woke up precisely where I lay now."

The tall woman listened patiently to H.G.'s story. Her forehead wrinkled with every detail that was recounted, her breathing growing steadily faster. As H.G. continued to sit on the floor calm and collected it was clear who was more startled by the turn of events. _Something is clearly not right with the way this woman is reacting._

"Okay, we should get you something more comfortable to sit on," the woman proposed. H.G. could see the hardened expression on her face and the wheels turning in that head of hers. The stranger went for the office chair and when she turned to wheel it around she was met by the point of a gun.

"I think it is time we introduced ourselves properly," the inventor exclaimed, Tesla in hand. "You first."

***

This was not _her_ H.G.

If it was she would have happened upon that charming smile and those eyes that shined with warmth only meant for her. Instead, Myka saw a time traveling Victorian who had no memory of the perils they had experienced, the mysteries they shared, the secrets kept. There was obvious suspicion across the inventor's face. H.G. did not know who she was and more importantly did not know who Myka was _to_ _her_. The narrowed, hesitant eyes burned into Myka's. No, this was definitely not her H.G. Myka knew this because she wouldn't have expected to have met H.G. at gunpoint – a _fourth_ time.

***

"So, what will it be: a quick and precise explanation or a paralyzing shock of electricity to the nervous system?"

The woman looked from the Tesla to H.G. and back. Arms went out in surrender. "Calm down, this isn't what you think. I'm a Warehouse agent just like you. Here." She slowly reached behind to her back pocket.

"Ah!" H.G. cocked the Tesla in warning. "Hands, let me see them." She pushed herself up off the floor and to her feet. Balance did not come easily and she staggered. The tall woman took a step forward to steady her, but was halted by a threatening stare. H.G. extracted the wallet and flipped it open to reveal a badge.

"I used to work for the United States Secret Service before my recruitment to the Warehouse. I now use it as my cover when I go on assignment."

"This doesn't prove anything." The inventor laughs mockingly. "You might be the U.S. government, but I know a Warehouse agent when I see one and you, darling, are not pinging my radar."

The brunette smirked despite the offensive remark. "Can I put my hands down?" She indicated with her raised palms. "This is getting kind of ridiculous, even for you."

"You say you know me, in yet you refuse to answer my questions. If you know me so well then who am I _really_?"

The woman caught the knowing stare and dropped her arms even though the gun was still on her. "Helena G. Wells," she began, "born September 21, 1866 at Atlas House in Bromley, England. Unlike your brother, Charles, you are the true H.G. Wells; artificer, writer, creator of the most impossible ideas known to man, and prophet of things to come. Just before apprenticing at Warehouse 12 you attended the World's Fair in 1893 and met Nikola Tesla with whom you helped design that fine weapon you are pointing at me." The woman took a deep breath and finished with a cock of her head, "And you hate cats."

She didn't blink or hesitate. This stranger who claimed to be an acquaintance of the inventor didn't miss a beat. H.G. was dumbfounded. There was one aspect about her life, however, that the woman failed to mention. A lump formed in her throat when she asked, "And what of my daughter?"

The tall woman hesitated as if waiting for some sign. H.G.'s chest constricted at the silence. Anticipation caused her to swallow over the growing lump.

"Christina Wells passed away –"

The interruption came in the form of a rasping cry that was quickly stifled by a shaking hand. The nausea that H.G. thought had passed came back with a vengeance. She could taste the bile at the back of her throat. Air passed in and out of her nose and she squeezed her eyes shut, praying for relief. The shaking gun rattled in her tightening grip. When she found her voice again it came as a whisper. "Continue."

A few moments of silence and then a low voice spoke, "You were staying with family in Paris. There was a break-in. She was caught in the struggle. She was eight-years-old."

H.G. felt for the object around her neck and clutched it fiercely until her knuckles turned white. "And what else about her?"

"You keep a locket holding her picture. She shared your same black hair. Christina was…"

 _Goddamn it._ The Tesla was growing so very heavy. The image of the female imposter began to blur through watery tears. Her chest rattled under the weight of tragedy. "Finish!" she shouted. H.G. couldn't tell if she was pleading or demanding with the woman.

"Christina was your happiest place on earth."

The gate had opened unleashing a pain so great the raven haired woman collapsed back to the floor. The stranger who did not seem to be a stranger no longer stepped over the fallen Tesla to hold the convulsing body.

"I'm so sorry."

H.G. could barely hear the words over the sound of her agony.

***

It took her more than a few minutes to collect whatever sanity she had left. Christina had passed away only a month ago, the loss still so fresh in her memory. H.G. couldn't recall where she was when she found out or who came to her with the news. What little remained after was the horrible pain in her heart, that pressure so great that oxygen wouldn't come and the only conceivable remedy was to shut down. Hours upon hours the writer had spent locked away, forgoing nourishment and sleep. There was just insurmountable staring; out a window, into the fireplace, down on the floor, but never a book, never her smiling face within a locket.

She refused to see family members or receive comfort from the grieving because there was no one on earth who was as inconsolable as she was. It would almost seem that her pain had been numbed by the solitude, but every time she saw behind closed lids there was the face of her Christina, that image of her daughter so alive and happy. Soon the image began asking her why had not she not saved her, demanding of her why she had been out gallivanting with the notorious bourgeois when she should have been home protecting her child. This pain - not simply of loss but of regret - haunted her at every waking moment.

That excruciating pain was still present as she lay in the woman's arms. It couldn't be let go. She didn't want it to disappear, not yet. Not until those responsible felt her same pain, if not more so.

"I'm sorry."

There it was again. This woman was clearly sharing in her remorse as if she could feel what H.G. was feeling. _Whoever she is she couldn't possible understand what I've been going through, how wretched my heart feels._

H.G. slowly disengaged herself from the arms encircling her once trembling body. Turning away, she wiped away the tears and sat up. "So you really do work for the Warehouse? That has to be the only possible explanation for how you know my true identity."

"I do," the woman confirmed, "and I'm willing to forget that comment about me not acting like an agent."

H.G. blushed and for a moment the pain was forgotten. She was then aware of how alone they were. "Where are the other agents?"

As if arriving on command, a bark sounded from the back room and a rambunctious border collie bounded into the office. He nuzzled the brunette's outstretched hand before approaching H.G.

"And who might this be?"

"This is Trailer. We found him during a mission. He's kind of our Warehouse mascot."

He padded hesitantly to H.G. and then halted still as a statue. His head bobbed up to meet the writer's eyes and then panned down to her toes. He sniffed the air around her. Ever the Warehouse mascot he seemed to be sizing up the intruder. When he was finished with his examination the dog opened his mouth in a smile, tongue lolling out. He was obviously satisfied.

H.G. patted the head that was offered to her and ran her fingers through the long caramel coat. Admiring the animal with a wry smile she asked the woman, "So is this your partner?" H.G. lifts the dog's head so they were nose to nose. "Do you go on assignment, Agent Trailer?"

The collie woofed in response and gave her another lopsided smile. The two women laughed on cue.

"No, I think this one is too house-trained to go on missions," the American agent exclaimed. "That or he just sticks around here for Artie's cookies."

"Ah-tee?" H.G. pronounced in her charming British accent.

"Oh, sorry, I'm obviously not very good at introductions. Arthur Nielsen, he's my boss. We call him Artie. He's the one who runs this place." H.G. nods her head in comprehension. "My partner, Pete – he was the one I mentioned earlier with the Chunky Monkey – we've been working together for three years now. Pete is… well, let's just say Trailer is more house-trained. Then there's Claudia, our youngest agent. She's a wiz at computers and technology. Kind of a mini-you. Steve, he's our newest addition. He's a great asset when interviewing witnesses because he has this ability that allows him to detect when people are lying. And lastly, Leena, who owns the Bed and Breakfast where we all live. She can read auras. I don't know how, but trust me, she's really good at it."

"Well, it certainly sounds like a full house. But I must inquire where is this colorful cast of characters? Has there been some kind of artifact crisis?"

The woman chuckled. "You know, it's funny you should say that seeing as we have managed to avoid talking about _this_ little artifact crisis." She gestured with her hands to emphasize that H.G. was the "artifact crisis" in question.

"Yes, I do suppose my traveling into the future constitutes as a crisis."

"Maybe we should have this conversation somewhere a little less intimidating. I'm sure it must be confusing being here."

"That is very kind of you." H.G. panned around the office with a slightly withdrawn expression. "And a change of scenery would be much appreciated. I may have a passion for time travel, but now that I've actually experienced it… well, let's just say it is not as stimulating as I imagined it to be." She held a hand to her still queasy stomach.

The brunette nodded grimly. She led H.G. to the door leading out of the Warehouse. Hesitating before opening it she turned to reveal a shy smile. "My name is Myka by the way." She extended a hand towards the other woman. "Myka Bering."

H.G.'s hand stretched of its own accord, grasping the one before her. Her fingers curled around the other woman's. She felt instant warmth creeping through her skin. The journey through time left her body a chilly temperature and the sudden change in sensation made the hair on her skin stand on end. H.G. wondered if that was the only reason for the giddy lightheadedness she was experiencing.

Her thumb grazed slowly over each of the woman's knuckles, leisurely taking in the hills and valleys of the bone. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Myka."

***

It took H.G. about an hour to make an adequate examination of the automobile. With Myka as commentator H.G. was able to understand the basic mechanics of four wheel drive.

"Oh, I do miss the horse and buggy days."

"This is just too weird, " Myka muttered under her breath.

"Pardon?"

There was a cough. "Uh, I said 'This must be weird for you.'" Myka raised her brows in mock excitement.

The writer nodded. "Yes, well, I have to admit with the number of scraps I've gotten myself into this has to take the biscuit." She abruptly looked curiously at the driver. "Is that still a usable expression now, 'take the biscuit'?"

***

After a long discussion on 21st century idioms and expressions and an even longer talk about the importance of seat belts they finally arrived at the bed and breakfast.

"I do not see the point of wearing a harness when you are being propelled at 65-miles-an-hour. How can anyone feel that spectacular rush when you are strapped down to the seat like a mental patient?"

Myka closed the door behind them and let out an impatient sigh. It would seem that reasons of safety and the law didn't get through to the Victorian. She let it go as they had more important things to talk about.

"What a splendid home!" H.G. commented as she took in the appearance of the foyer.

"We should have it to ourselves for a while. Pete and Claudia are on assignment, Artie is having dinner with his girlfriend, Vanessa; I don't expect him back until the end of the week," Myka adds jokingly, "and Steve and Leena are held up at the Warehouse doing inventory."

Myka directed the writer through the glass paneled doors to the dining room. They sat across from each other at the round table and waited. The air was stagnant with uncertainty. Neither of them quite knew how to begin such a conversation for it was not every day that a notorious Englishwoman traveled through time.

The brunette started, "So…"

"So…" H.G. replied. Her hands were clasped together politely on the table. Her fingers still felt the lingering warmth that had been transferred during their introduction.

"You mentioned a hole of some sort, a portal that the artifact created after it fell?"

"Yes," the writer said, suddenly entering 'agent mode.' "I was reaching for something on the shelf. It was quite a high reach. I was rustling about and something sphere-like was dislodged. The impact of the artifact created a time-space vortex. I slipped, fell, and…" H.G. shrugged, "here I am."

"You seem pretty sure that it was this sphere artifact that is responsible. Do you have any idea as to what the origins of this artifact are? Or maybe the sector you were in? That could narrow down the possibilities."

H.G. opened her mouth to reply, but paused. "I was well aware of the sector in which I was occupied. It was… it was in the time travel section."

Myka's body turned rigid at the candid testimony and leaned forward. "What were you doing there?" She already knew the answer to the question, it was written on H.G.'s face and was a burden fused to her shoulders every step of the way.

H.G. couldn't sit any longer. She stood up and paced the floor. It would do no good to worry herself into a state. It was best to focus on the task at hand. One problem at a time. "It has been a month – a month for _me_ – since Christina's passing. I was trying to find a way to get back to her. If I could somehow get a hold of an artifact that could alter time there would have been no need for what happened to happen." H.G. gazed through teary eyes, slightly guilty. "She doesn't have to die."

The other woman bit her lip, trying in vain to come up with something reassuring to the grieving mother. Her wounds were deep and the pain was still so fresh that there was no telling how H.G. would react to what words Myka had to offer. A litany of assurances came to mind, no doubt. Devouring books upon books over the years shaped an impressive vocabulary for the young agent. Like her favorite author Myka had a fondness for the written word, but none of them matched up to the emotions the woman before her was suffering under. She knew from experience that there was literally nothing she could say that could comfort one who lost a loved one. Myka knew this from experience. So instead of using words she remained silent, giving the raven-haired woman the time she needed.

When H.G. found her voice she continued. "I had already been working on designs for a time machine, but there were a few setbacks that led me to seek out the time travel sector of the Warehouse." Myka perked up at the mention of 'time machine.' "That area does not consist of actually working time travel objects, though, some were collected under the suspicion that they were operational; they were stored there simply as a safety precaution. While there I was searching for something that could assist in the proper construction of my machine. I was just looking for… I don't know inspiration."

It was becoming more difficult by the minute to remain impartial and as a result Myka's patience was drying up just as fast. Anything she might say or want to say about H.G.'s future could lead to extreme consequences for the natural universe and, more importantly, could endanger the Victorian.

"What makes you so sure that this time machine could work?" Myka asked as objectively as possible. "I mean, it seems evident that the sphere artifact is operational, but it sent you to the future not the past. You are a Warehouse agent, so you know how unpredictable _any_ object in the Warehouse might be."

"If I can be propelled into the future I can certainly find a way to reverse the effects of the artifact so it sends me back through time. A specific time."

"H.G., this is dangerous. It only takes one mistake to start a paradox or worse, kill you in the process."

"I am well versed in paradoxes and causality violation. The years of research I have dedicated myself too… if anyone could pull it off it is I," the Victorian lifted her chin with pride, "a rather world-class expert on time travel."

"And you became obsessed with it! It led to your bronzing!" Myka said it without thinking. With eyes as wide as the Grand Canyon her mouth hung open in shock. She closed a hand over her mouth in an attempt to shut anything further from coming out.

H.G. raised a brow and tipped her head. "I beg your pardon?"

Myka shot out of her chair. Shaking her head she whined, "I shouldn't have said that. There are things you can't know."

Crossing her arms across her chest H.G. replied, "Things? What more are you not telling me?" More inquisitive than ever the writer squinted at the curly haired woman. "And how on earth did I end up in the _bronzer_?" she scoffed.

"I – I want to tell you, H.G., I _really_ do, but there is more at stake here than you being bronzed."

"What could be more important than me being bronzed? That is, _besides_ me traveling 112 years into the future?"

"You should know more than anyone else how wrong it is to screw with past and future events. You built the time machine for god's sake!"

She gaped at the woman who slapped a hand to her mouth a second time and slammed down her foot in frustration. "So it worked?" H.G. took a step forward, eyes wide and dancing. "My invention, I got it to work?"

"Damn it, Artie's gonna kill me," the agent mumbled while the inventor just smiled at the thought of her machine. "No, I take that back, first the Regents are going to fire me, but not before Mrs. Frederick shoots those dagger eyes at me, and _then_ Artie's going to kill me." Myka fell into a chair holding the head that she predicted would soon be detached from her body. "Oh god."

Still glowing from the news H.G. kneeled in front of the sitting figure. "If what you are saying is true, that I succeeded in building my time machine… that would mean my Christina is alive. I saved her didn't I?"

Myka looked up to witness the smile. It was the happiest she had ever seen the Victorian, cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes sparkling, hands clasped together as if in prayer. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight. She would gladly give her life to keep that expression alive; however, it would disgrace Christina's memory to make H.G. believe something that wasn't true. She had suffered so much and now H.G. would lose her daughter all over again.

"No," Myka whispered softly. A solitary tear escaped and ran down her cheek, "you couldn't save her."

The beautiful look of hope vanished slowly with drooping lids and falling cheeks. Bright eyes darkened into midnight pools while her unsteady hands fell. H.G. had paled back into her normal grieving state.

"Oh," H.G. said, voice cracking.

Myka couldn't take it anymore. Without thinking she kneeled down on the B&B floor, embracing the figure that was frozen in shock. Arms immediately wrapped themselves around the taller woman as if they should have been there all along. H.G. wasn't crying or showing any signs of outward emotion. Instead, the brunette could feel the aching sadness throbbing beneath the breast pressing to her own.

Myka buried herself into the billowing darkness of hair, breathing in the distinctly Victorian scent of H.G. Wells. The raven strands released the scent of tea, ink, and coal gas. This is what she smelled like in her time, Myka thought. An image came to mind of a woman writing by the light of a gas lamp with fountain pen in hand and a steaming cup of Earl Grey at the ready. All of sudden she began to feel the familiar sensation of loss stir from within. The present H.G. was god knows where and no longer a part of the Warehouse (or at least that was what she was told). There was no telling when she would show up, if at all, and in what kind of state.

But if being in the arms of her friend again didn't have a calming effect on her nerves then the remaining molecules of tea leaves certainly did the trick. Regardless of the time period she arrived from, the body did smell like her H.G. In an effort to make the moment last she hugged the woman closer. Maybe if she held on tight enough and long enough _this_ H.G. wouldn't leave her


	2. Day Two

A finger hovered over the infinite buttons of the machine that called itself ‘Mr. Coffee.’ The process was not terribly difficult, H.G. thought, as she was able to figure out the contraption without the need of a manual. To brew the perfect (or close to perfect) cup of coffee one must deposit the grounds into a filter and add water. A two-step process that left H.G. wondering just what quality of sludge the contraption would produce.

“Americans are always in a state of haste,” she mumbled dryly.

With narrowed eyes H.G. bit her bottom lip and went for the green button. The switch made a click which made way for… nothing.

Hands propped on hips she put her foot down petulantly. “Oh for god’s sake!”

“Can I help?”

A smiling young man approached from behind. The innocent, kind eyes put H.G. to ease at once and the strong, handsome chin merited a return grin. Without waiting for a reply he reached behind the machine to procure a black cord which was then inserted into the wall. Seconds later there was a gurgling sound and steam began to rise.

“Is that… electricity?” There was a gasp followed by a childlike squeal at the nod. “Oh how wonderful! This would have made Nikola as happy as a sand-boy.” H.G. ran a hand reverently over the Mr. Coffee and brainstorming the many ways to elicit a myocardial infarction from her dear friend. The man would positively reel at the thought of a beverage heating system powered by a current of volts from a wall. Positively _reeling_.

“This is nothing. You should see the big shiny ones Starbucks has. I hear the Verismo 1000 is giving this one a run for its money.”

“Excuse me? I did not seem to catch what you said.”

Steve tried to stifle a laugh and failed. It eventually died in his throat when he received a severe narrowing of the eyes. Clearing his throat he shrugged and said, “Never mind. This one right here will do the trick. Just be careful with the handle. Claudia installed a mechanism on the top that was _supposed_ to prevent dripping but, well, let’s just say _that_ debate is still ongoing.”

H.G. noted the extreme application of duct tape and rubber bands. She admitted with a smile, “It would seem I have a great many things to learn about 21st century gadgets.” She took a step, holding out her hand. “I am very much obliged, Mr…?”

“Jinks,” a hand went out hesitantly to meet H.G.’s, “but you can call me Steve.”

“A pleasure,” drawled the Victorian.

Steve laughed at the blatant once over the woman was giving him. “So I got a voicemail from Myka. She tells me you… _arrived_ here yesterday.”

“Arrived is putting it lightly, but yes I did indeed happen upon your Warehouse 13 just the other day.” Her eyes found the floor as she added slowly, “And it would seem in another time contrary to my own.”

“I uh…” the agent followed her stare to the floor, absently scuffing his shoe at it. There was a cough and without warning he came at her, arms wide and closing in.

“Oh,” murmured H.G. She froze within the enveloping hug that instantly warmed her heart. No one from her period would have acted upon such rash intentions. A man asked for a lady’s hand before ever making contact, a tradition H.G. found boring after a dozen or so courtships. At Christina’s funeral few bold chaps approached with the purpose of such a hug, though none of them were defined by the comfort Steve was offering. It took mere seconds and a sharp intake of breath for H.G. to wrap her hands around the strong shoulders in a sign of acceptance.

Unfortunately, the soft, warm body of a new friend withdrew. Cheeks red and twitching into an awkward smile he stumbled out, “I-I apologize for that. I didn’t mean to invade your space. It’s just… when Myka told me when you left your time and the circumstances before the portal thing…” his hand went out as if in a sign of companionship, a reminder that she wasn’t alone, and then it dropped to his side, “I’m sorry.”

“Nonsense,” H.G. shook her head to dismiss a repeat of last night’s embarrassing occurrence with the brunette agent. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You did not even exist in 1899.” There was a pause and then sly lips opened to add, “Unless you possess an age defying artifact I am not aware of.”

Steve chuckled and stroked his chin deviously. “Well, there is Man Ray’s camera, but that didn’t crop up until the 1920s.”

H.G. rolled her eyes, giving him a wicked smile. “Boys and their toys.”

“You have no idea,” Steve agreed wryly. Stuffing his hands in his back pockets a curious expression crossed his face. “You know, we never had the closest relationship – this time’s H.G. and I. She really was not around long enough for us to develop the kind of bond I have with Claudia, but it’s good to see your face again.”

“Yes, about this other me. Where am I? Or, rather, where is _she_ currently? Talking to Agent Bering I understood that she left for unexplained reasons. I ventured a question regarding her whereabouts but was met with gloom.” H.G. gazed at Steve and realized the feeling was shared by many. She remembered back to the night previous when her inventive mind put two and two together to conclude that she had somehow (whether by bronzing or time machine) ended up in 21 st century America and once again in the rightful hands of the Warehouse. H.G. remembered asking this Myka Bering where she was now in their time and was met with teary eyes and a hasty goodnight.

“Mr. Jinks?” H.G. pressed.

Steve looked as if his conscience was in a raging battle with pity. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed a hand over his face. “Okay, okay. It’s just… you do know how difficult it is for people to say no to you, right?”

“Dear,” purred the Victorian while fluttering her lashes, “whatever are you talking about?”

“Ha ha,” Steve joked with a grin. He crossed his arms and gazed into the distance. “Our H.G., what can I say? A few weeks ago the world was in danger of being destroyed.” A hand gestured for emphasis as he added, “A usual day at the Warehouse. There was a bad guy, an artifact, some bad juju, and then there was H.G. She helped us catch said villain, neutralize the artifact in question and save the world and our butts in the process. All in a day’s work.” Steve shrugged to signal the end of his explanation.

“Somehow I suspect that is far from the comprehensive tale.”

The smile disappeared. “You have a difficult history with the Warehouse, one that spans more than a single century. You and the Regents never saw eye to eye on matters… there were some trust issues… and one day H.G. disappeared with no goodbye or explanation. Everyone here assumes she’s in the custody of the Regents, but they refuse to comment. We haven’t seen her since. She doesn’t call, she doesn’t write. It’s like she never existed – no offense, by the way. Everyone at the Warehouse just wants to know she’s okay. We all miss her.”

H.G. fingered the locket around her neck and staring peculiarly at the agent. She was utterly mystified that she, H.G. Wells, was so admired and yearned for. The last time she saw her beautiful Christina, that was the most recent she had felt this beloved feeling, this sense that if she were to leave this world her charming looks and sharp mind would be missed. It was shocking and humbling to feel it again after her heart had been so barren without the sentiment.

“When she left…” Steve continued, “it hit me hard. It hit us all hard.”

“Myka.”

“Myka especially.”

“Mr. Jinks…”

“Steve,” the agent corrected with wink.

“Steve,” H.G. addressed, “My skills at reading human behavior are nothing to boast of, yet I can’t help but pick up a peculiar air of… familiarity from Myka. When she looks at me I can detect a sorrow there. Myka is hiding something, some kind of pain and she doesn’t think people see it, but I can. She thinks she is so strong that she can fool the one person who probably knows her better than herself. But, alas, I just have the appearance of that person. I am not the H.G. she knows.” H.G. turned her head curiously. She asked slowly, “Did something happen between them?”

His mouth opened to reply and closed as if to think better of it. After a moment he said, “If there is anything between Myka and the present H.G. then I should be the last person to ask. I haven’t been around here long enough to commentate on suspicions. They are close, I can tell you that, but they also have a complicated past.” He leaned forward and chuckled. “As ironic as that sounds.”

H.G. laughed.

“Just don’t tell her I said anything. From the voicemail she left Myka already seems a little on edge. Best not to shock her.”

“That is, not to shock her further than she already is?”

Steve wagged his finger at the Victorian and nodded.

“Yes, well, the feeling is mutual. I haven’t had an adventure like this since Gustave Eiffel unknowingly unveiled a superconductive structure at the World Exhibition in 1887.”

“Hold up, are talking about…?”

Her lips spread slowly into a wide grin. “Not all artifacts can fit in your pocket, darling.”

Just as soon as H.G. finished the coffee machine gave a chime, signaling the end of its cycle. Her eyes grew wide with excitement and a little trepidation.

“Ah,” Steve noted, “A grand adventure indeed.” Shaking his head he left the inventor to her devices.

“Now,” sighed H.G., examining the full pot of dark liquid, “what did Mr. Jinks say about the handle?”

***

The steps creaked under her footfalls as Myka descended to the first floor. She was typically the first of the B&B residents to awake with Steve following, then Leena and Claudia, and finally Pete “just five more minutes” Lattimer holding up the end.

When the sun was just on the brink of peaking the cool South Dakota mornings were always something to look forward to. The fresh scent of a new day invigorated her senses more than coffee did (although a cup or two certainly helped). It was the only time she allowed herself with her books and not her work. Warehouse related paperwork and research was not her idea of spending the dawn in solitude. No, this was opportunity to dive into the worlds of Shelley, Tolkien, Blake, and Wells. At times it would be one particular author that called to her and other times they would surround her all at once, reading a few lines of _Auguries of Innocence_ here and a few chapters of _Anne Veronica_ there. It warmed her heart to experience the first hours of daylight with these titles, more so than any lover could ignite for these tomes were her fond companions.

This day was different than the rest. She did not wake smelling that fresh scent of a new morning. There was no desire to crack open a book or dive into a brave new world of fiction. Instead, she rose to the rushing events of yesterday and the burden of what was to come. Myka intended to be the first to rise that morning, however, after coming upon an empty bedroom it was evident that someone beat her to the sunrise.

The last step creaked as she descended to the foyer and followed the smell of coffee. Entering the kitchen she found everything in its place, except for the coffee machine. Heaping piles of bunched paper towel soaked with brown stains sat on the counter nearby, a result of what had previously been a gargantuan spill.

Shaking her head and chuckling to herself she deposited the mess into the trash. The coffee machine was unplugged to prevent any further encounters with a raven haired Victorian.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Myka said, arriving at the B&B study.

“Am I so predictable?”

“You _are_ an author, so it wasn’t hard to find your location.” She gestured to the stuffed bookshelves around them.

H.G. hid her growing smile behind the open book. She sat on a couch with her feet under her and a very happy collie curled up beside her.

“You sure make friends fast.”

The dog raised his head to give a yip and further nestled against his new best friend. H.G.’s hand left the book to thread her fingers through the caramel coat. Trailer brought his paw up to signal where he wanted to be scratched. H.G. obliged to the offer, rubbing his belly and eliciting a lazy smile from the pup. “Yes, it seems Trailer and I have formed quite a bond.”

Myka took the seat opposite and brought a blanket around her shoulders as she was without a warm canine nestled to her side. Finally cozy and settled, she took in the dark circles and pale skin of the time traveler. “You couldn’t sleep?”

H.G. shook her head. “I have grown accustomed to such sleepless nights. Thank you for the bed and the clothes. I do so like your taste.” She fingered the loose white blouse at its collar, relishing its malleable smoothness.

“It’s the least I can do to make you feel welcome. And you are free to any of the food, however Americanized it may be compared to what you are used to.”

“Ah,” the writer winced and put her book beside the untouched cup of coffee, “about that. I am afraid I had a run in with one of the beverage makers. Your Mr. Jinks was kind enough to give me a few tips, but the… Mr. Coffee was not as sympathetic to my maneuvers.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about that,” Myka remarked, laughing, “Claudia has been tinkering with that thing for ages. The rest of us just keep our distance.”

“Noted,” H.G. stated with an arch of a brow. She returned her hand to the attentions of Trailer who was whining with impatience.

Sinking further into the sofa Myka watched the two. It was chilling to have the H.G. Wells of 1899 in her study, so full of ideas both dangerous and benign. It was almost unbelievable, yet here she was, flesh and blood sitting among the classics, contemporaries, and her own famously pended words. Questions flew through Myka’s head, questions that never saw the light of day due to the hasty departure of her present day friend.

“Helena…”

H.G. met her gaze almost startled at the use of her Christian name. Her eyes waited wide and expectant, waiting for something significant to follow, because how would someone knowing her true name supply anything less?

Myka placed two fingers against her lips in a half-hearted attempt to stop what she knew would tumble from them. Though not an expert on paradoxes she had a duty to the Warehouse (and the world itself) to form her words wisely. The pressure in her chest could not be ignored. Here was a golden opportunity, one that Myka couldn’t pass up or not take advantage of. It had been too long since she has seen H.G.’s face and it would be regrettable not to speak what has been on her mind all of those weeks.

“Why are you here?” Myka blurted. H.G. blinked and attempted to answer but was interrupted. “I mean, don’t get me wrong I’m happy to see you. When I saw you collapsed in Artie’s office yesterday it…” she closed her eyes and took in a much needed breath, “… it stopped my heart. I thought you had come back, my – I mean, this time’s H.G. She left so abruptly, leaving us to come up with the most outlandish presumptions as to where she went.” Myka’s cheeks flushed with growing frustration as her hand slapped the arm of the chair. “But then here you are just dropping in unannounced and blissfully unaware of what you’ve just done, like you’re some replacement…” Her whisper dragged off. The hand returned to her trembling lips.

“I am not as blissfully unaware as you might think,” H.G. sat up straighter and finished softly, “ _Myka_.”

How the tables have turned. Just hours ago H.G. was the one on the precipice of tears and spinning in a world that ceased to make sense. Myka hid her emotions behind a hand. She did not want to lose it, not in front of Helena. In a month’s time the writer had lost her daughter, traveled through time, and been confronted by some pretty dreadful and surprising truths about her future. Myka had no intention of adding more fuel to that emotional fire stirring within.

Her hand pulled away from her vision so she could meet H.G.’s patient expression. They stared in silence, breathing, hearts beating. A shimmering light caught her eye, urging attention down to H.G.’s neck.

“The locket,” Myka observed carefully, “You always kept it close. When I first met you it was the only precious thing in your life.”

“Was?”

“I was precious to you. You had told me that once.” Myka’s eyes dropped to her blanket. Her fingers picked at a stray loop of fabric. “Before disappearing.”

From the corner of her eye she could see H.G. shifting on the sofa opposite. The agent could almost hear the wheels turning new information over in that brilliant head of hers. “I don’t know if that’s true, though,” Myka added as an afterthought.

“Why ever not?” came immediately from the Victorian’s mouth.

Myka shrugged. “People say things. That doesn’t make them fact.”

“Since when has emotion been more fact than feeling? Have signs of affection really changed the past 100 years?”

Myka gasped at such forwardness. How was it possible she had forgotten the bold demeanor of the woman she called a villain, a partner, a friend? someone she wanted to mean more to her than any person in history and existence? The coward’s exit was the only way to respond. “It’s complicated.”

“Yes,” H.G. cocked her head and flashed her doe eyes, “when it is concerning two women from different centuries whenever is it not complicated?” She tucked her chin down and gave the brunette an indulgent curve of her mouth.

_What a fine point indeed._

The tension in Myka’s shoulders began to dissipate with the growing smile.

“I suppose we have dawdled quite enough.” Trailer let out a gruff breath as H.G. rose from the couch. “Daylight is burning and I do have a whole time period waiting on me.”

Myka’s face fell along with her hopes of closure. That opportunity to voice incomplete words and perplexing sentiments closed just as soon as it opened.

_I wouldn’t know what to say anyway. I can hardly look at her much less bear my soul to this woman._

Hiding the thought with a shake of her head Myka replied, “Of course. Let’s get you back to where you belong.”

When it was said she looked to anywhere but H.G.’s beautiful, existent face.

***

“So how did you neutralize it? and without suspicion?”

“Mr. Jinks, if I told you how I would be taking the magic out of it all. It’s best to leave a bit of mystery in the universe.”

The agents were sitting at a table scattered with books while Myka tapped away at Artie’s computer. They had been working furiously (some more furious than others) at finding a clue that would point them in the direction of the artifact that sent H.G. there. As the curly haired brunette scanned through hundreds of electronic files the other two’s resolve quickly derailed. H.G. indulged the young agent’s curiosity by chronically memorable adventures at Warehouse 12. As any good storyteller would the tales had an origin and a climax that built to a mindblowing resolution. Steve sat riveted by the Victorian’s exposition only stopping her for the occasional comment or question like, “That was an artifact?” or “You did what?!”

“But did Eiffel know? He had to with a size like that!”

H.G. let out a sigh and turned to Myka. “This one likes to be spoiled of such wonders, doesn’t he?”

“Hey,” Steve huffed, crossing his arms, “I am an official agent of the Warehouse. I think I deserve to know some of these mysteries.”

Chastising the petulant child with a glare H.G. soon softened to more devious pursuits. “So tell me Mr. Jinks…”

“Again, call me Steve.”

“Oh, nonsense! I do so like the alternative. Now be honest with me,” H.G. scooted forward in her chair to fold her hands together on an open book. “Are you presently courting anyone?”

A sharp crack caused both Steve and H.G. to turn in its direction. In record time a blushing Myka bent down to pick up the book and return it to its place beside her. She resumed her typing which had now transitioned to a manic speed.

A toothy smile plastered on her face the Victorian returned her attentions to the other agent. Her brow arched in wait.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck and laughed. “It’s been awhile," he conceded. "When I was at ATF there wasn’t a lot of time for… social mingling? My relationships were not very forgiving of the demanding lifestyle of a government agent. Um, the last boyfriend I had didn’t take to well to my constant traveling. I can’t imagine my recent career adjustment has changed that factor much.”

H.G.’s smile grew wider, reeling in the bait. “I know exactly the kind of man you’d like. He is devilishly handsome, charming, a good sense of fun when the occasion calls for it, and the most important of all, very thankful for the rugged good looks of a face like yours.”

“Oh, Helena…”

Myka’s voice carried to the inventor’s ears, but H.G. was already in the thick of secondhand wooing. She propped her chin on the palm of her hand, eyes not leaving the blushing agent. “He’s my partner. I think you two would make a grand match!”

Steve smiled at the woman’s determination and replied, “Yeah, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind the extreme change in time zones…” he gave a pointed look, “…or time periods.”

“Pish posh! Did I not jump 100 years and over a pond to get here?”

“You make a compelling argument,” Steve chuckled, playing along, “but you haven’t explained the fact that this mystery suitor and I are both Warehouse agents. I’m sure Artie has a rule against it.”

With a huff and a shake of the head H.G. passionately defended, “I never understood such a decree. How can we, secret government agents and keepers of the world’s most wondrous secrets possibly find time to woo in betwixt hunting evil doers and acquiring artifacts halfway around the globe?” H.G.’s face contorted in disgust while she waved a hand. “It is quite unreasonable if you ask me.”

“Well, if this partner of your’s is ever strolling about the year 2013 you’ll be sure to tell him to give me a call.”

“That I will,” H.G. replied with a cheeky grin.

“We got a ping.”

The two agents looked up at Myka who was standing at their work table. They had gotten so deep into their squabbling that they hadn’t noticed the other agent creeping up. Brunette curls bounced with the head panning from Steve (who looked like his hand got caught in the cookie jar) and H.G. (though a tad flushed from her tirade, appearing greatly pleased with herself).

“Right,” Steve deadpanned, “the sphere thing.”

“Yeah,” drawled Myka, hands on hips, “the sphere thing.”

“Righty-ho then!”

***

“Well that’s surprising,” Steve muttered, rolling his eyes and turning from the vacant shelf.

“It’s supposed to be here! The computer said Bellamy’s sphere was cataloged in this exact spot!”

“Maybe the box made a miscalculation.”

Myka frowned at the mention of the computer ‘box’ H.G. referred to and threw up her hands. “I don’t see how. Claudia installed a brand new update just a week ago.” Her hand gripped her bunching forehead. She started to pace before the shelf in question. “No, this is the section devoted to fact-turned-literature. According to the Warehouse files Edward Bellamy acquired an inconspicuous paperweight that was in the shape of the kind of sphere we are looking for. When he found out about its time traveling properties it became his inspiration for his best-selling novel. It’s _supposed_ to be here.”

“Myka, I think we’re all allowed to make mistakes,” Steve cautioned gingerly, “once and a while.”

“I can’t afford to make mistakes. There’s too much at stake.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Steve put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “When a lead doesn’t pan out we just go back to the drawing board, right? So let’s go and see where that box went wrong.”

“No,” Myka looked up. “You go ahead. See if you can get a hold of Claudia. She may know how to narrow the parameters. H.G. and I will split up and scour the nearby shelves. Maybe the artifact just got misplaced.”

Before leaving Steve gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. Avoiding H.G.’s quizzical stare Myka ran a hand through her hair and wondered how the day had grown so tiresome so quickly.

“Okay, so I’ll go this way,” Myka jutted a thumb behind her, “and you go that way?”

H.G. followed to where the agent was pointed and with a brief nod went in that direction.

***

The gate was partially opened allowing a stream of light to slip out. The scraping of boots echoed through the isolated section of the Warehouse and Myka didn’t know if she was pleased or worried at having ended up here.

The heavy entryway creaked when it was pulled aside. Myka breathed out a sigh of relief at the spotting of raven black hair. The presence of the Victorian put her at ease, but the twinge of dread rising to that calm surface could not be ignored.

“I figured this would be the first place you’d look.”

There in the vicinity stood a large machine with a handle and various needles and numbers. Two chairs were at the center, one of which had a hand upon its back. H.G. did not turn at the sound of Myka’s voice. The crowbar used to pry open the crate hung loose in her grasp.

“All the research and time it takes, the sleepless nights, the piles of books and schematics, and here it is.” Delicate fingers traced the fabric of the chair, petting it in a loving fashion. “The idea was so firmly fixed in my mind, yet I never saw it to its final construction. It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

The tone sent a chill through Myka. A tentative step was taken, sending her heart to a faster beat. She had to remind herself that this woman was still in a fragile state. This inventor was brilliant beyond words themselves; however, she was also capable of some horrible things, things that had not yet come to pass.

Myka witnessed the continued stroking of hand to chair as if sketching its integrity, coloring in its grooves and curves, and storing the mental record away for safe keeping. H.G. was memorizing the look and feel of her time machine, the creation that would send her on a path to further destruction.

“In all the time my daughter has not been in this world I have never put pen to parchment.” H.G. faced the other agent to reveal once beautiful features now sagging under an enormous burden. “How could I? Christina was the only bright star in a constellation of wicked and selfish suns. She was my bright star, my pure happiness, the most eminent and dazzling of my creations. That kind of inspiration does not drive one to write, but to act. She’s gone from this world. Now it is my job to snuff out the rest of them.”

“H.G. I know that you are hurting and I'm not saying those men are any less guilty, but this is not the way. You don’t have to do this. I know what happens if you do and I couldn’t bear it if it comes to pass again.”

“Do not presume to tell me you share my loss!” the writer shouted with all her might. “Have _you_ lost a child? Was the heart ripped from your chest when you found out your only daughter was taken from you? A brutal and senseless crime, that was what Christina’s death was.” H.G.’s hands bunched into lethal fists. She sneered through clenched teeth, “And it shall not go unpunished.”

Myka rushed forward and grasping the fierce mother’s arms. “Please. You may have just met me and I haven’t given you much reason to trust me besides the fact that I’m a Warehouse agent, but you have to understand what I’m trying to say. If you don’t let this go it will destroy you, Helena.” Myka bit her bottom lip to stifle her own sob. She took the other woman’s face in her hands. It was all Myka knew how to do and it felt as natural as breathing. “I can’t let you do it. _You_ wouldn’t let me. Inflicting pain on others will not erase your own.”

“It is all I know, Myka,” H.G. croaked, her chin trembling.

“It doesn’t have to be,” the agent insisted, bringing them closer so their foreheads kissed. “That locket you hold so dear has room for two pictures. Your Christina will always have a place in one of them. Let the other one have a place in your heart as well.” Myka closed her eyes. “There is more to life than seeking vengeance. Find someone to fill that emptiness. Find someone worthy of taking up that space beside your daughter.”

For the first time H.G. smiled. It is a half formed one, though paired with the glint from brown eyes it made an impression. “Do you have any submissions?”

“You presume much, Agent Wells.”

“How can I not?” The back of H.G.’s hand grazed the woman’s cheek causing them both to gasp. H.G. joined Myka in closing her eyes, whispering against her lips, “When there is a perfectly suitable candidate right in my midst.”

***

Arthur Nielson’s office was as still and silent as the farthest reaches of outer space. After unconstructive time spent at the computer the three agents ended up knees deep in books. Although being their one and only choice Myka rather liked it that way. Paging through the dusty tomes and running a finger line by line was preferable to a daughter of a bookstore owner rather than punching an arrow key and clicking a mouse.

“Do we know where Bellamy found this sphere?”

“No,” Myka answered Steve. “The database had very little information on the artifact to begin with. Maybe that’s why it got misplaced,” she mumbled irksomely.

Sitting at the table with the two female agents he lowered his head back to the book. After a few taps of his pencil he looked up again. “What about the Regents? An artifact that’s missing but tagged in the computer as shelved must be the doing of the higher ups.”

“I highly doubt it, Steve. With the amount of trouble we have around here with time machines, bronzing, and astrolabes I’d imagine we would be the first people the Regents came to about this.”

With a heavy sigh he went back to flipping pages.

Myka continued her own reading on alternative options if the artifact didn’t turn up. Her eyes skimmed a page on the Einstein-Rosen Bridge and before she knew it was absorbed by theories of general relativity and equations penned by Albert Einstein himself. Though it was highly unlikely that H.G.’s salvation lied with a black hole Myka knew better than to question the legitimacy of scientific proofs in a supernatural world.

A clearing of the throat brought Myka’s eyes from a Euclidean wormhole diagram.

“I may have come up with an idea,” H.G. announced. She fidgeted in the chair beside Myka, gesturing with a hand and continued innocently, “If we use my time machine…”

“No.”

“But if only I were able to inhabit the mind of -“

“No, H.G.”

“She has a point, Myka. Claudia has been making some adjustments to the flux capacitor and just a few weeks ago she told me it was fully functional. If one of us were able to go back before the vortex opened we could uncover more information about the artifact. I mean, it was on the Warehouse shelf in 1899. There should be some account of how it opens the portal and give a clue as to where it’s located now.”

“Precisely,” the Victorian chimed in. “If my psychometric machine is operational I can occupy my own cognizance in 1899, locate the artifact, and return with the information necessary to make a return trip.”

Steve nodded, catching on to H.G.’s plan. “I should be able to throw the switch with relatively few adjustments. Claudia already told me some things about calibrating the arrival time, and she’s essentially a Farnsworth call away in case we need her. We could even hook up a backup generator if there’s a voltage spike.”

“I said no!” shouted Myka who was now on her feet.  “This has gone far enough. Claudia should have known better than to mess with that thing. If Artie ever finds out he’s going to go insane. The time machine is in the Warehouse for a reason.” She glared at H.G. who drew back into her chair. “It was _supposed_ to be locked in a crate never see the light of day. Any number of things could go wrong, a power surge, a spark that ignites the wires and sets the whole thing on fire, not to mention someone could get seriously hurt in 1899 and lose their mind in 2013!” Myka took a breath and raged on. “No. It’s too much of a risk and you _both_ should know better!”

Taken aback by the extreme display of authority Steve muttered, “Well I guess we know who takes on the Artie mantle when he’s gone.”

“What did you say?”

Steve shrugs innocently, eyes shifting to H.G. “Nothin’.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” H.G. chimes in.

That shrug of a shoulder, eyes that rose to the ceiling, and combination of smirk and arrogant snark did things to Myka. It had been so long, so long indeed that she almost stumbled back from it. For a moment Myka’s face fell at what had occurred earlier. She tried to convince H.G. not to do the things she would do. What if her convincing becomes too successful?

_If Helena doesn’t use the time machine to commit those horrible acts she doesn’t get bronzed. If H.G. isn’t bronzed than I never meet her._

Myka held a hand to her queasy stomach, unwilling to accept the consequence of such an option, to accept that she would never hear that Victorian drawl or see that charismatic grin.

“Myka?” H.G. asked gingerly, approaching the woman. “Are you alright?”

As soon as it appeared the melancholy state made way for the Artie-like sternness. She raised her arm at the elbow and put it down in a slicing motion to her point. “If either of you two think you can just take any old artifact and fiddle around with it until it does something you want…” Myka blinked rapidly and stumbled out, “… well, you would just be wrong. There is a downside to _every_ artifact, no exception!” She puffed up her chest and squared her shoulders, declaring, “I am in charge. That means it is my responsibility to keep you two in line.” She silenced H.G.’s oncoming retort with a finger. “I _will_ _not_ risk our lives with the misuse of an artifact and that includes you as well, Helena.  Now, I’m going to bed before either of you think up another clever idea that’s going to get us fired, or worse, murdered by Artie.”

Steve and H.G. looked at one another deciding without words that that statement was not one they would like to challenge.

Myka stormed through the umbilicus. A dozen fears and unresolved emotions flew through her head. This H.G. was so much like the present one. Her being there, interacting not just with her but with a fellow agent and friend was a painful reminder. The camaraderie shared with the other agents and that snarky demeanor and sly grin shot straight to her heart.

Myka Bering was falling in love all over again, and it would end like it always did: in tears and semi-goodbyes.


	3. Day Three

If there was anything to be desired at Leena’s Bed and Breakfast it was not the coffee. Many a tenant learned not to mess with Claudia’s many ‘improvements’  to Mr. Coffee; Pete having burned his hand thrice before getting the message, Artie and Leena being tea connoisseurs, and Myka always partial to the large Americano with an extra shot and room.

It was on her way out of the Univille diner toting a coffee in one hand and a bag of pastries in the other that the idea hit her. She arrived at the B&B that morning knowing exactly what was to be done. After a fleeting exchange with Leena she bounded up the stairs to her room which she promptly closed behind her, and locked.

It was hidden right where she left it. Just days before disappearing H.G. had left the item with her for safekeeping. She even went as far as offering Myka to read it. As instructed, it was kept safely tucked away until her return.

Myka pulled back the knob and reached in. There it remained deep within a drawer, collecting dust in the days since her dear friend abandoned her. The leather bound cover and its creamy pages within were a temptation Myka never allowed herself to indulge. It was more an unwanted reminder of the Victorian than a respect of privacy that it was never uncovered. Not until this extraordinary day.

_Maybe just a peek._

It wouldn’t necessarily betray the woman’s trust as H.G. specified the book as a shared item that could be opened whenever Myka so pleased. She not only entrusted her faith in Myka but her deepest and darkest secrets as well. Flattery was not so easily bestowed upon the brunette agent, yet H.G. Wells did as if it was her mission in life.

The book lay closed on her lap. Clammy palms pressed to its front in an effort to keep the thing closed. She had her doubts, of course, which successfully kept it hidden from her mind the past few weeks. It wasn’t until this morning that the worn cover with its heavily inked pages sprung to consciousness. Ultimately, it was her failure at solving the case of the missing Bellamy sphere that convinced her.

Myka did not have a plan and she greatly wished Artie were around. Dealing with this situation was taking its toll on the agent both physically and emotionally. She needed guidance, sleep, relevant information, anything that would help her get H.G. back to where she was supposed to be.

So here she was with the inventor’s diary in hand. It would only take a flipping of pages to get to the appropriate date and read through what occurred the day H.G. disappeared, and more importantly the day she returned.

Mentally swatting away the doubts Myka took a deep breath and made her decision. Slipping a finger between the front cover and first page she opened it.

The soft knock from the other side of her bedroom door had other plans for the snooping Myka Bering.

***

“Myka?”

There was some rustling around and then a slamming of probably a drawer. H.G. raised her hand to knock again.

“Ah, okay come in!”

H.G. stepped into the bedroom. Myka was standing beside the bed, cheeks flushed and hair sticking at odd angles as if she had been caught in the middle of something.

“I apologize if I startled you,” the writer began while making a sweep of the room. She was instantly comforted at the sight of so many books cluttering the shelves. H.G. wondered what authors made up such a vast library, which ones the agent favored and if a particular scientific romance writer was among them. After a quick glance at some photographs on a dresser she focused back to Myka. “There is something I think we should talk about.”

Myka nodded. “Okay, sure.”

Absently twisting a ring round a delicate finger H.G. debated whether to sit or stand for this. She sat. The bed sagged agreeably under her, the bedspread soft to touch. Following a peek at a book ( _Turn of the Screw_ ) sitting atop the nightstand H.G. boldly went where she never expected going.

“I can’t help but sense unwillingness on your part to be truthful.” She paused, closing eyes and shaking her head to the charge. “No, that is not right. What I mean is… you seem to hold yourself back in my presence. There is tension between us and I do not believe my future transgressions are the source. That time we talked in the study yesterday morning you let out quite a lot of anger and regret that I can’t help but feel responsible for…” H.G. sighed and rushed out, “Myka, are you upset with me?”

“Upset? No, that’s not it at all.”

“Then why does it seem like I am unwelcome?  Every time I try to get close you shut down. In fact, when you discharged that confession yesterday I remember you calling me a replacement. What does that mean? _Whom_ do you suggest I am replacing?”

She planted her hands on her jean clad hips. Eyes darted anywhere but confused brown ones.

Myka had plenty to say, H.G. could sense it, but from the diverted gaze and lip biting it was clear how tiresome it was to keep all of it in. Whether it was for the Victorian’s own good or for Myka’s, H.G. did not know. For some unknown reason the pained hesitancy being displayed was unacceptable to H.G. They hadn’t known each other for very long, yet this 21st century woman meant something to her. Whatever burden or regret she carried with her day after day was intended to be relieved and H.G. felt compelled to take on that duty. Only Myka could know why.

“You can confide in me,” the writer pressed gently and believing every word. “After the exertion you and Mr. Jinks have suffered to solve this artifact mystery I have no reason to distrust you.”

“Don’t make it sound like helping you is a pain because that is not what this is. Every minute I have with you is nothing close to suffering.”

“Then let me in,” H.G. pleaded, taking her hand to pull her closer. “Tell me what has caused you such sadness.”

Aimless green eyes finally attained the will to meet H.G.’s. “You,” Myka answered barely above a whisper.

“I disappeared,” H.G. conceded, remembering what was recounted about her other self, “I left the Warehouse without saying goodbye. More importantly, I left _you_.”

Myka gave a contented sigh at how quickly the writer had caught on (and at not having to voice it herself). “Yep.”

“And I can understand the betrayal one might feel when a colleague makes a mysterious departure.” The Victorian narrowed her eyes. “But somehow I doubt that ‘colleague’ is the precise word to describe your relationship. If it was your hair would not stand on end whenever I touched you. ” To prove a point she rubbed her thumbs tantalizingly slow over the hills of Myka’s knuckles just as it was done at the beginning. She pulled Myka closer so her knees hit the agent’s quivering thighs. “It stood as more than a simple work relationship, did it not?”

The tall brunette gripped those hands for fear of collapsing. Eyes watered but did not overflow just yet. “I don’t know,” Myka admitted with a shake of her head. “I’m afraid…”

H.G. witnessed the pause which the agent swallowed down over the lump. She also felt the tremor passing between their embracing hands. In an effort to preserve the connection and offer a bit of encouragement in return H.G. gave the trembling hands a squeeze.

Accepting the gift with a crushing grasp Myka choked out, “I’m afraid I’ll never know. She says things and… it could just be her way of talking to everyone. I could be wrong, but I don’t want to be.  If it was anything more than work or friendship how can I know when she isn’t here?”

“Myka, I do so wish I could supply the answers you are searching for. It troubles me to see you in such a state of hopelessness and that I caused it.” H.G. wanted to be closer. Not just to comfort through touch but to ground this woman with her presence, to assure that she was solid and alive. No answers could be given, but a clear and present doppelganger was next best. She made room on the bed and urged Myka to sit beside her. Always following orders the agent complied. “I’ve come to know you the past three days, Myka, and I cannot imagine depriving you of the farewell you deserve. In fact, it pains me to even consider parting from such a cosmopolitan new acquaintance. A _special_ acquaintance.”

The brunette almost snorted at that, but settled for light scoffing. “I’m nothing special. I’m nobody’s first choice. I’m not the pretty one. Just the loyal friend, the scrupulous co-worker, that girl who spends her time with books and swords.” Myka let out a chuckle. “I turn my nose down at sugar, but find it impossible to turn down a Twizzler.”

Though H.G. hadn’t the slightest guess as to what a Twizzler was she smiled because Myka had a way of doing that. “There is much to be desired in those qualities and that you possess all of these is unique to Myka Bering. If I can see that then surely my future self has done similar.”

Doubt still clouded her features. H.G. studied the face, its creamy smooth skin begging her hand’s caress, the nose that spent countless hours between the pages of books, the lips so soft and inviting that left Victorian’s own mouth tingling. If she were to touch this angel H.G. supposed some transfer of energy would occur, something warm and honest that filled a space, too stubborn to leave.

The agent’s dark curls settled over relaxed shoulders, breathing grew steadier, and H.G. beheld it all. Myka had a strength she didn’t know she possessed. H.G. wished that strength could be shared for the stars were growing so much brighter and home seemed to need a change in destination. Splayed out beside her, H.G.’s hand inched closer to another’s.

She did not want to leave this woman. Not now and not ever.

***

Myka shivered under the writer’s scrutiny. It wasn’t the fear induced shiver experienced earlier, but one that warmed every extremity and elicited that overwhelming need to be touched. Myka felt wanted.

Though a familiar feeling it did not come with the doubts of past occurrences. H.G. was and always remained as a blur through her life, constantly on the move and barely staying long enough for a significant exchange. She didn’t stay, so Myka didn’t have a name for their relationship and couldn’t know what would follow these quiet moments of beholding.

There was only one Helena G. Wells, but the one currently sharing her bed was different; she knew Myka’s insecurities, her doubts, all because she was here, because she _stayed_. What was taking place there – the desire blazing in Helena’s eyes, the half-parted lips, a hand creeping nearer – struck Myka as an opportunity, a chance that could last much longer if they craved it enough. It was what could be had in her future as well as H.G.’s.

“It seems as if my past, present, and future are converging all at once, to this very moment.” As before H.G. took Myka’s hand in hers but this time it felt different. “And for once in my life I am at a loss as to what course to take. That is what you do to me, Myka.”

While the writer was at a loss for insight, the agent was without words. Myka just looked at their hands and the fingers that laced together, creating a bond as strong as cavorite. If by holding some part of her maybe she would stay a little longer. It wasn’t supposed to happen, it could have upset the order of the universe, but Myka didn’t care. She had done her duty long enough and deserved some recompense. Damn the rules, she wanted happiness. She wanted Helena.

“How do I know which road to take? How do I distinguish the path to destruction from the one of enlightenment?“  H.G. shook her head sadly. “After learning of my future it seems so much more clouded. I do not know where I will end up and that frightens me, Myka.”

“I know who you are Helena and I know who you _want_ to be. You turn out to be this kind and adventurous and charming woman, but you had to go through so much to get there. All the pain and years of being kept away from humanity…” Myka hesitated, torn between emotion and duty, heart and head. Caught in the magnificence of eyes that hailed from another time, the words tumbled effortlessly. “But you don’t have to go through that just to be the woman I fell in love with.”

Helena’s eyes softened. Her voice came out in a whisper. “You love me?”

“I- yes, I love you.” Myka was sharing things she knew she shouldn’t. It couldn’t be explained; the way she felt around this H.G. made her want to reveal everything she had kept from the present H.G. It almost seemed like a second chance. Myka was thrilled and disappointed at the same time. She knew her feelings for the woman. She had known them for a long time, perhaps since the first gun was pointed. The emotions felt around the Victorian were overwhelming and passionate. It felt so good to get it all out in the open, but it was upsetting to share these things while the present H.G. was never made aware of them because Myka never had the chance to tell her.

“Myka! I’ve got good ne –“

Their hands broke apart as the two women looked to the open doorway.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize… I thought you were alone.”

“It’s alright,” Myka said, standing. “What was so urgent?”

“Trailer is the best dog ever.”

With an arch of a brow H.G. replied, “I would have to agree, though I doubt that constitutes as urgent news.”

“But does the average canine pick up the scent of an artifact that’s been missing for over 100 years?”

H.G. and Myka looked to one another. The same dread clouding one pair of eyes was shared in another.

“He found the sphere.” Steve explained. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of it before, but I had him sniff around the area it’s cataloged in and he actually found it.”

“That’s… great,” the brunette offered. She forced her mouth to a grin, examining H.G.’s reaction as she was her own. “That’s really great.”

“Yeah,” Steve chimed in with more enthusiasm, “I’m beginning to think we didn’t stumble upon Trailer by accident!”

Still fixated on Helena the agent murmured, “You will finally get home after all.”

Parted lips opened wider but nothing surged from them. No acknowledgement, no contradiction.

When H.G. failed to make her thoughts known Steve interrupted with the remarkable suggestion to get the case officially solved. The time traveler agreed and went off to prepare while Myka and Steve remained.

“Hey, Myka,” the young man said. His ice blue eyes focused with concern over his friend and co-worker. “Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“No, I mean, _are you okay_?”

Fully aware of what was being asked her eyes held Steve’s and then dropped. Swallowing over the growing disappointment and feeling the stab of having to accept abandonment all over again Myka walked passed him and out the door.

And with that, Steve Jinks received his answer.

***

Deep within the Warehouse three agents and their lucky mascot stood in a circle looking down at a foot long crack. How the crack went unseen for dozens of years no one knew. When Steve had the brilliant idea of using Trailer to search for the missing artifact he allowed the dog a whiff of the Bellamy index card which inevitably led them back not to the empty shelf, but to the concrete below it. After H.G. gave a brief recap of how she fell into the vortex it was deduced that the crack was a result of the sphere. The artifact connected with the floor creating a time-space vortex and – suspected to have powers of intangibility – sunk into the ground and out of sight. Once the Victorian passed through, the portal closed leaving behind an inconspicuous fissure that wouldn’t be noticed until the year 2013. Though not present on the shelf the sphere was cataloged in the area because it _was_ there, just a few feet below it.

Its method of opening a time portal still remained a mystery which may never be solved. Strangely enough the agents were okay with that. Since joining the Warehouse they had seen many odd things. Bellamy’s artifact would just be another to add to the list of unexplainable events.

“So if the artifact is buried however many feet beneath the ground,” Myka said, working through their predicament, “how are we going to get at it?”

“That’s where this artifact comes into play.” Steve held up a yellowing bundle of cloth which he unfurled before them.

H.G. frowned at the cloak decorated in beads and feathers. “What on earth is that?”

“The Lenape tribe cloak,” gasped the other woman. “Pete and I snagged it in New York when we were investigating an art heist. However, unlike an ordinary theft it was done without disturbing the safe. This cloak has intangibility properties that allow its wearer to pass through any solid surface; a wall, a reinforced steal vault…” Myka gaped at Steve and they shared knowing grins, “… _a_ _floor_. Steve you’re a genius!”

“Wait,” H.G. held up a hand, “so this material grants passage through any impermeable exterior…” her face grew hard with concentrations as the inventor in her measured the concerns, “… and what, you are simply going to throw the blasted thing on and fall through the floor? How can you perceive its depth? You don’t even know what is under the Warehouse.”

“It couldn’t have gone far. Artie says this place is protected on all sides with super strong elements the world hasn’t seen yet. The concrete under our feet should have slowed down even a powerful space-time generator like the sphere.”

Though not entirely convinced H.G. folded her arms and urged him to continue with a nod.

He turned the coat over to reveal its string of feathers and indicated to one of them. “While holding just one of these feathers I can feel around just below the surface.” Without preamble a feather was plucked from the cloak.

“Steeeeve!”

“I’ll put it right back,” he assured the brunette. Kneeling before the crack he wedged the quill up his sleeve, took a deep breath and lowered his hand to the ground.

“Be careful!”

Steve inhaled sharply and pulled back. He forced a smile at Myka. “I _am_ being careful. Give me some space?”

The two women backed away and watched anxiously as the agent dipped his hand _through_ the ground. A yellow light glowed around the feather along with the hand, allowing his whole arm to be drawn in up to his shoulder.

“Okay,” Steve grunted. He moved the hand around, feeling for something round and solid. “There’s a lot of concrete. It probably goes down for miles. Wait! There’s a crevice… I think… I… got it!”

There was a flickering of light around his arm as he withdrew. The feather was still wedged unharmed in the cuff of his sleeve and in the palm of his hand rested a spherical orb. Ominous and flawlessly round the artifact had been uncovered after 112 years, earning a few awed expressions from its audience. At first glance it appeared as onyx, but if one were to look away it gave off a shimmering silver radiance. Look back and it was a seemingly ordinary black ball.

“Well done, Agent Jinks.”

Returning H.G.’s nod he shrugged and confessed, “All in a day’s work.”

There was a gleeful bark as Trailer padded closer to his uncle Steve. The collie nudged his wet nose to his cheek and followed with a tongue and lots of drool.

***

It was agreed that activating the portal would be best done in a more isolated part of the Warehouse (in case of explosion, implosion, or any unforeseen detonation). Steve and Myka did not want to tempt fate by ripping open a time-space vortex in the middle of their boss’s office. Artie's eyebrows would have fused with his hairline if anything was out of place upon his return.

Changed back into her 19th century garb – pants, blouse, vest, decorative pocket watch and all – H.G. fiddled with the locket around her neck. It was losing the warmth given by her neck which seemed to be cooling in lieu of her imminent trip. She remembered the vertigo and unbearable nausea from before, and how she chilled to the bone from the after affects.

While Steve left to return the Lenape cloak to its rightful shelf the two women were left in the middle of a lonely, open area of the Warehouse. Myka was examining the Bellamy sphere with a keen eye, fingers tracing but not finding a seam. H.G. watched from afar as the woman turned the artifact over in her hands and shivered at the sight of two contradictory entities: Myka, her supposed future and a sphere, the catalyst for shattering that future.

“You really think it will work?”

Thoughts of paradoxes and how to avoid them were demolished when H.G. was brought back to the present. A small smile came to her lips. “I am afraid to say it is not an exact science. There is no telling what time I will be sent to.” A hand abandoned its comforting grip from the locket to clasp her other. The Victorian cocked her head and candidly spoke, “If there is anything that I have learned from this wondrous experience it is that fate has a way of bringing peace when least expected.”

“Helena, when you go back you go with the knowledge of the mistakes that will be made.”

“Mistakes that I will not make. I promise you, Myka, that woman is not me, not since you have come into my life.”

The agent took a deliberate step towards H.G. She did so with little hope in those brave green eyes. “But if you don’t make those awful decisions – killing the men responsible for Christina’s death, asking to be bronzed – we will never meet.”

“You do sound a bit selfish, darling.” The Victorian laughed despite the tears threatening to fill in her eyes.

Myka shook her head. “I’m thinking of you, Helena. Knowing that I was the person who made you see reason, the only one able to help you through Christina’s…” She couldn’t look H.G. in the eye so she diverted her gaze to the floor. “I just don’t want you to be alone.”

She reached out to cup Myka’s cheek. The touch sparked vibrant warmth and hope. H.G. noticed the unmoving chest as Myka waited with baited breath.

“Do you know me so little, Myka Bering, to think that a time traveler such as myself could not find her soul mate?” The hand against Myka’s cheek swept back a curly strand of hair tucking it behind the ear. Her hand stayed, tugging lightly to emphasize the urgency of the statement. “I would cross oceans of time and space to find you, scouring the years just to be with my love.”

H.G. heard the echo of Steve’s footfalls and knew they didn’t have much time. Taking the agent’s hands in her own, squeezing them with the comfort done before she stated with absolute certainty, “I do not simply disappear into space and time without an explanation or goodbye.” Sniffling, Myka’s blood shot eyes met H.G.’s. Taking a finger and turning the chin up the writer looked into those green eyes with fierce honesty and trust. “H.G. Wells does not disappear, darling; she just goes away for a little while. And she will _always_ come back to you.”

Her mouth formed a thin line, a throat bobbing to the sobs threatening to escape. Just as Steve walked in Myka gave the Victorian’s hand one last embrace. It slipped away like light into a black hole.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye.”

“It appears so, yes,” H.G. commented wryly, turning to meet Steve’s morose face. “If it were not for the corrupt beverage machine I would have no qualms about staying.”

It didn’t take long for the comment to be met with a hug. For some unspeakable reason the 21st century softened the otherwise hardened demeanor of H.G. She accepted her friend’s hug wholeheartedly. Leaving a kiss on his scruffy cheek H.G. leaned back still grasping his muscular shoulders. “I intend to jabber on about you to good Wholly. He may not have met you but he will certainly appreciate the stories I shall recount about you, saving my arse and all.”

“Feel free to leave out my more insufferable moments.”

“Nonsense, I cannot think of a single one!”

By her side Trailer made a whining noise, perhaps a dog’s way of pleading. Coming to eye level with him H.G. took his head in her hands pressed their noses together.

“Thank you for finding my ticket home, Agent Trailer.” Trailer yipped and struck his front paws simultaneously to the floor. H.G. laughed at this new display of authority. “After putting those excellent nose skills to work I think you have earned the title.”

Rubbing under his chin she leaned in close to his flopping ear and whispered, “Take care of these two, my friend.” With a final pat and a kiss to his head H.G. released Trailer. His tail hung dejectedly low as he backed up a step and commenced with a dog’s manner of mourning complete with lethargic eyes and a high pitched whine.

Knowing who was last in line for goodbye H.G. took in a breath that rocked her very soul. It wasn’t time. The case was solved much too soon. H.G. was not ready to depart such pleasing company. She wasn’t ready to leave Myka.

Before her courage could seep away through the cracks the Victorian whirled to meet Myka, but it was too late. All that was left was a fast retreating blur of brunette curls. It was the last she saw of her. H.G. finally understood true abandonment.

***

_I couldn’t do it. It was just too much._

Boots tracked heavily against the floor, their pacing wearing away at the wood. Myka’s breathing was coming in fast and rushing out in quick sequence while tears fell of their own accord. Her body as well as her emotions couldn’t remain in a constant state. Decisions couldn’t be made, not without rash thoughts, thoughts that spurred her to leave without saying goodbye. She couldn’t function without the Victorian, so she left just like H.G. did her. Maybe that was it. Has the mystery been solved? Did her H.G. leave without telling her because she couldn’t function without Myka?

_Was it really this painful to say goodbye?_

It was because a thousand and one knives were attacking the agent’s chest, bearing down on an already broken heart. They pierced and tore in, scraping out the good stuff, the stuff that made her smile, laugh, shiver, gasp, and cry. She was being hollowed out and left with an empty cavity, lying open and bear for the world to see. Like an empty locket, Myka’s heart was two barely connected pieces waiting for someone to fill it with sentiment.

_She won’t come back._

Boots halted their incessant pacing. Myka stood before her bed and felt the odd sensation of being watched. She looked around her, at the piles of books some open others closed and begging to be read. These books were imploring her to read. Some more than others and one in particular.

The hand clutching her chest dove for the handle and pulled. The antique nightstand gave a dull scraping as its old wooden drawer was opened. Fingers fluttered until they hit worn leather. Unlike its owner the diary showed its age in the form of frayed and bent corners, darkened page edges, and a few signs of stains. Myka inhaled deeply.

_Tea, ink, and coal gas._

The 19th century tome cracked at its opening. Pages were flipped. A finger passed over a date. July 6, 1899 never before held such significance. Myka whipped away at her eyes, her cheeks, and the last of her indecision, and read.

_July 6, 1899_

_What a peculiar day worthy of these pages! There was a most significant artifact I was hunting for today. The designs for my time machine are nearly complete and so scouring the time travel section for some expert motivation was in order. But, alas, the Warehouse had others plans. Reaching for a particular Babylonian ritual vase I must have lost my footing and hit my head because by the time I awoke I was on the floor (I will have to bother Chaturanga about installing ladders throughout various sections of the Warehouse)._

_Wholly informed me that when he got to my collapsed form he was able to revive me instantly. Strange, it almost seemed as if I was unconscious longer than accounted. That absurdity perhaps had more to do with my dream than anything else._

_As most dreams are this one was vague and clouded with uncertainty. Events jumped from one point to another, bleeding together and not having a fixed location in time. One element of my reverie, however, stayed frighteningly genuine than the rest. It was a person, a woman to be precise. I hardly know what her purpose was in haunting my wakeless state or where I was in the dream (haunting may be too strong a word. How about taking up residence in the mind?)._

_She was a clear picture, though, beautiful like a spring morning and standing with grace and confidence. I am jealous of any suitor who keeps the attentions of this angel. Perhaps in another life we shall meet, or if my calculations are anything to brag about I may use my machine to bend the fabric of time and space to search for this mirage._

_Oh, what am I jabbering on about? It was just a silly dream. These days grow so long and arduous. I think I shall escape the Warehouse for a spell and enjoy the streets of London!_


End file.
